Polychrome

by Ryk E. Spoor

  “Look, something’s been bothering me about this super-strength of mine. It doesn’t seem…well, consistent.”

  He looked at me sharply. “How do you mean?”

  “Well… If I’m as much stronger than you as I seemed that one time, and as it seems when I hit these guys, well, I didn’t even bark my knuckles on your armor. So…your swords and such shouldn’t be able to cut me, and your swings should feel something like a toddler beating on me with a padded pole — that is, not even very noticeable. But that jab I just took hurt and it felt like someone pretty beefy hitting me, too. Okay, maybe not as beefy as I’d have expected before, but it sure wasn’t a toddler. And those weights you’ve had me lifting and walking around in don’t seem to be much heavier than the ones your soldiers practice with — lighter, in a lot of cases. Plus if I was really that much stronger, Polychrome herself shouldn’t have been able to lift much more than a teacup, but she seems strong enough to lift at least as much as I’d expect a girl her size to handle — maybe more. So none of this makes sense.”

  “Ha!” He grinned. “You are correct, Erik Medon. It is a more complex matter than simple increase of strength. In essence, your mortal nature reacts against the power of Faerie, or causes Faerie to react strongly against your presence — but this is driven by the focus of your soul.

  “Now, when you strike against one of us, your soul is directing your blow, focusing the…anti-power, if you will, of your nature against your target, negating our strength and pushing us away from that which is the antithesis of our power. Except when you perform a powerful and conscious block of an attack, however, your nature is not so strongly directed in your defense, and thus you feel our blows much more as you would feel those of your own kind.”

  I nodded slowly. “Okay… so I could break a Faerie door down or something without much trouble, but if a Faerie roof fell on me without warning, it could squash me pretty much as easily as it would you?”

  “A good general statement, yes.” He straightened. “Enough talking, however. You’ve got a long way to go before you can be the Hero.”

  In his tone, I heard the unspoken if. Parts of the other pieces of the Prophecy that Iris Mirabilis had been slowly feeding to me passed through my mind…struck through the heart and silent… Across the sky and sea, wisdom he shall seek; That which he sought shall he refuse, and by rejecting wisdom gains he strength…burns his soul away…

  It was always that last verse that kept coming back to haunt me. I picked up my sword again and began running through exercises, but I was still worrying at the dozens of lines of cryptic verse, and always returning to the endgame. Even though both the Lord of Rainbows and Nimbus Thunderstroke had agreed that it didn’t necessarily mean I would have to die — that Ozma’s power could save me — it was pretty clear that death was very much in the cards. And if using her power was going to burn my soul, that meant that there wouldn’t be any of me left to go to the afterlife I was just now suspecting might really exist.

  “Enough, you idiot!” Nimbus’ voice broke through my reverie. “You’ve gone off again into your night-damned contemplations and your practice isn’t even worth the sweat of my worst recruit’s brow! Time for some real work! We’ll do the dragging weights this time, all the way around the arena, five times!”

  Oh, what I wouldn’t give for the power of montage…

  Chapter 12.

  “A True Mortal! That little conniving snip of a Faerie and her father have brought over a True Mortal!” The sky darkened above the Grey Castle as Queen Amanita clenched her fist and muttered a phrase in a language so dark that even Ugu winced. He could understand Amanita’s fear; as a Giantess in her origin, she was vastly more bound to Faerie than even he, for the Herkus were mostly mortal, merely using a magical supplement to gain their supernal strength.

  But that was not the only thing driving her current anger. “And read this — this! A Prophecy of our defeat!” She whipped out a black blade and drew back her arm for a strike that would have taken the head from the armored figure cowering before her.

  Ugu caught her wrist and held it effortlessly, concealing his own trepidation as Amanita’s rage transferred itself to him. “Unhand me, you second-rate sorcerer, or –”

  “Peace, Queen Amanita. You allow your anger and, yes, fear, to blind you to the advantages of our position.”

  Her other hand had been curling in preparation for casting a transformation — which would have revealed his own protections and possibly precipitated a final conflict that he was very loath to pursue — when his words penetrated. The icy green eyes thawed slightly and she tilted her head in curiosity; he slowly loosed his grip and watched as she sheathed the three-foot ebony blade. “Advantages, my lord? If you see any advantages to their gaining an ally who can ignore even the mightiest sorceries, I am astounded and filled with curiosity, for it seems to me that this is a disaster.”

  “Indeed, it could be. But first, let us not punish our best servants for bringing us news we would rather not hear. Instead let us reward Cirrus Dawnglory for his long and perilous service.”

  The bowed figure raised his head cautiously. “Thank you, your Majesty. Though I no longer have need of that name.”

  “As you will; yet you took his name and identity three centuries agone, and in many ways you have become him.” Ugu had spent many years studying his people — the enslaved of Oz, the collaborators, the elemental spirits forged from his magic and Amanita’s and the souls of particular natives of the Four Countries and the City. He had gained much understanding of the thoughts and feelings behind their actions — enough that he would on occasion privately admit to himself that it was his lack of such understanding which had led to his original defeat, in an almost inevitable manner. Amanita, he suspected, was incapable of such understanding in any but the most superficial and mechanical manner. This might — he hoped — prove one of his advantages, in the end.

  He applied this knowledge carefully now. “I am sure that it was not easy to return to us with all you have brought.”

  The eyes that met his were wary, fearful, and he could see the shift of glance towards the expectant green-haired Queen. “H…how do you mean, your Majesty?”

  “It would be a great wonder, Cirrus, if you could pass centuries at the side of a man so capable and loyal, live in a realm of such beauty, speak words of comfort and advice and friendship, and not have part of the lie become truth. Indeed, I would doubt you could have succeeded in your mission if your entire time in Iris’ realm were naught but pure deception.”

  Amanita’s eyes narrowed and her hand twitched again towards her black sword, but his hand stilled her. Part of her still remembers it was I who freed her. For now.

  After a moment, the false Cirrus nodded. “I… I did like him, Majesty. It…pained me to betray him in the end.”

  “I know it felt like a betrayal, Cirrus. Yet you entered there under our orders, following the imperatives of our kingdom. His own Cirrus did not betray him, but died fighting to the last — a noble death.” He kept his face solemn and respectful; and, in truth, he felt respectful, even if Amanita did not. “You, then, have carried out a terrible and perilous mission for your true sovereigns, despite many temptations. Even Nimbus would understand this difference. You have done well. We will have much need of your counsel in the months ahead; go, rest. Refresh yourself. We shall send for you later.”

  Clearly amazed at his good fortune, the false Cirrus — once merely one of the twisted Tempests he had forged from a Gillikin soul — rose, bowed, and departed.

  Once the doors had closed and they were alone, Amanita turned a slit-eyed gaze to him. “If you ever interfere with me like that again, I will seriously consider re-negotiating our bargain, King Ugu. Now explain to me these so-called advantages.”

  He prevented himself from either an acid retort or a too-condescending smile. He was coming to realize that Amanita was more volatile and possibly even less sane than he had previously believed. I a
m tied to her, perhaps by destiny…and I had best be cautious until I have found a way to sever those ties. “The advantages are three, my Queen. Of primary and most overwhelming importance is that — unless our plans have gone terribly awry — not even Iris Mirabilis himself suspects that Cirrus Dawnglory has been an impostor, a creature of ours since almost the day that Oz fell. Had any been suspicious of him, they would have acted long ere now. And the attack and destruction of his patrol was complete; none survived to report back that Cirrus had turned on them, and no other Faerie were within any possible range of perception.

  “Thus, what we have learned from him is our secret and ours alone.”

  She nodded, slowly. “But a minor advantage unless there is much more to be gained from this knowledge.”

  “And there is.” He smiled coldly. “We have the Prophecy — which prophesies our possible defeat, but also victory, and they do not know this. Can you not see how well this is for us?”

  Whether as the isolated Mrs. Yoop or as Queen Amanita, the Yookoohoo had never been said to be stupid. She paused and considered, and her red-lipped smile was as a shard of poisoned ice. “Oh… Oh, my, yes, my King. My sincere apologies. We have here in our grasp the way to our defeat…and if we take care, we can guide our enemies to follow that course until it ends in theirs.”

  “Precisely. We must take care that none recognize that we know how our end is foreseen. We must not interfere in any way that would reveal our foreknowledge. React, never act, but prepare, here, for the grand finale that will dash their hopes, shatter their belief in their protection from our powers and their futile hope that the Above shall one day rescue them.” He slowly seated himself in the Grey Throne. “And this very Prophecy also shows that — by describing how it may be used against us — the final ritual we have often discussed would, in fact, give us final and total control over all the power of Oz.”

  She laughed, that delighted yet chilling glissando echoing through the throneroom. “And they will be delivering to us that vital ingredient which we were lacking!” She settled back in her own throne, looking much more relaxed, and then glanced back up at him. “You mentioned three advantages, your Majesty. What is the third?”

  “The third, my Queen, is the major reason that I not only prevented you from killing Cirrus, but have rewarded him, and intend to continue doing so — and I hope you shall join me in this. Even if we succeed in this grand final ritual, you know full well that it is Iris Mirabilis and his Legions — and the connections that it is said he has to the Above — who will pose the final and greatest threat to our eternal power over Faerie and Mortal lands.

  “And here, in Cirrus Dawnglory, we have one who knows every detail of that sky-fortress’ defenses — every door, every wall, every passage obvious and hidden, the tactics and strategies discussed by the Lord of Rainbow and his Head of Hosts, every single aspect of their ways of offense and defense…and they suspect not a bit of this. With his help, we may find that we can send our own warriors into the Rainbow Fortress without even sounding an alarm.”

  Her laugh rang out again, and a moment later his chuckle joined hers.

  Chapter 13.

  Polychrome watched from the doorway as the group of Guards prepared for training combat. She knew that Nimbus and her father were deeply worried; Erik had the intellectual and, somewhat surprisingly, physical potential to be a good -- perhaps even better than good -- warrior. But when it came down to actual fighting, sparring with the men in the closest thing to real combat they could manage to give him…he just couldn’t seem to use what he’d learned. He hesitated, he backed off, he was perhaps one-half or one-tenth as effective as he might be. That was why she had decided to watch today and see if she could figure out what was going wrong.

  Erik stood at the center of the room, waiting. He was dressed in twilight-indigo crystal-metal armor and holding a shining silver sword, touched with a hint of emerald, that was about as long as he was tall. He held it in one hand, moving it absently as though it were a fishing rod instead of a huge blade of metal that, she knew, she could lift but would never be able to wield even with both hands even for a few seconds. His True Mortal nature rendered the mystical blade effectively massless for him — and not for his targets, making it terrifyingly effective if he was willing to actually use it properly.

  Willing…is that it? No, I’ve been watching him these months. He was only telling the truth about his laziness — he doesn’t like working hard, but he’s also told the truth about his dreams, and he’s really been working hard for this dream, even though I’ve heard him complaining to himself a lot when he thinks no one’s listening.

  Part of that work showed in his appearance. The armor he wore made his shoulders look very broad, but they were broader than they’d been when he first arrived, and the belt holding the mail now defined a true waist instead of something more rounded; his face had also become more defined, square and sharper with less rounding. She approved.

  Unfortunately, appearance didn’t mean much. It was performance that mattered, and he was consistently failing to perform. she’d heard the Guards whisper — and suspected he had, too — that he was already a failure. They would not speak unkindly to his face, they were too well disciplined and trained to do so to a guest of the Lord of Rainbows, but she knew that his failures were causing the Storm Legions to fear that already the Prophecy had failed and their cause was lost.

  The Guards spread out, encircling Erik Medon; his eyes checked their positions carefully as he turned to watch their movements. Then he noticed her, and his eyes widened slightly.

  “Ready, all…” Nimbus called, raising his hand.

  The blond mortal gripped the sword now in both hands and seemed to gather himself.

  The armored hand dropped. “Begin!”

  The Guardsmen charged in a synchronized attack; Erik, recognizing that the last thing he needed was to get caught in the center of that mess, charged in the direction he was already facing, swinging the huge blade in front of him to clear a path.

  One of the guards behind hurled a spear, but it glanced off the armor. Erik only winced slightly, bowling over one of the Guards in front and clearing him with an impressive leap that took him well out of the encircling group of Guards.

  But he didn’t do anything to make sure the one who went down doesn’t get back up! Poly thought in despair.

  Erik whirled, delivering a sweeping strike that shattered the shafts of two spears jabbing at him; she saw the sword actually bend slightly from the impact, springing straight but, she thought, possibly with a notch in one side. He caught a hard-swung mace in one hand and ripped it out of the Guard’s hand like taking a toy away from a toddler, threw it over his shoulder, shoved the Guard away, and smacked another sideways with the flat of the sword.

  But the Guards were faster. The ring was closing in around him again and they were matching his movements better, hemming him in. Half of them were disarmed by now but they grabbed his arms, his legs, and those with weapons remaining were starting to get in hits. She winced as she saw one point slip through the guards to prick Erik’s leg; he cursed, then staggered as a pair of Guards struck the back of his knees. As he went down under a pile of Guards who were now systematically beating on him, she saw him raise his head, perhaps to see if she was still watching.

  Her hand involuntarily went to her mouth in sympathy.

  Then Erik vanished as the Guards really piled on. She saw Nimbus’ eyes roll upward, his head shaking in frustration.

  Then she heard a low, baritone snarl from under that pile, a pile that suddenly shuddered; she thought she heard a couple of nonsensical words in that sound that became a full-fledged roar as the entire mass of Guardsmen was heaved skyward, flung away from the figure at the center like straws in a hurricane.

  Her jaw dropped at that display of furious power.

  Erik’s hand whipped out, grabbed a Guard and crushed the armor on his shoulder, before Erik hurled him through the mass of h
is fellows, bowling them aside, Faerie tenpins hit by a living bowling ball. Then his movements somehow sped up…a silver streak spun about in a complete circle, batting the still-recovering Guards away in a shower of metallic fragments.

  They didn’t move.

  Erik Medon stood there alone, breathing heavily in triumph despite his breath’s sharp, whistling undertone. His armor hung on him in fragments, there were trickles of blood from a dozen minor wounds and red welts of bruises which would undoubtedly become blue soon enough, and his mighty sword was a shattered, unrecognizable mess except for the hilt. He looked about with wide eyes showing anger fading to shock and concern.

  Nimbus’ expression, by contrast, had just changed from worry to savage delight. “Now by the Seven Hues that is what I was seeking, Erik Medon! That is the power, the strength, the skill I’ve been trying to get you to reach for these six months! Well done, well done indeed!”

  Erik didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, he ran over to the Guards, especially the one he’d used as a bowling ball. “Jesus, holy crap, Rain, you okay? Stratos? Mist? I’m sorry, guys, I—”

  Rain winced. Red showed under the torn and crumpled armor, and he obviously was struggling to breathe, but even so, the Guardsman managed a pained smile. “Think…nothing…of it, Lord Medon. I am…honored to have been…one of the first to learn that our hope is not gone.” The others nodded, lines of restrained worry smoothing out despite pain.

  “What? I could have killed you with that stupid –”

  “Peace, Erik.” Nimbus placed a hand on his shoulder. “None died, and the injured will be tended to.” He shook his head with a wry smile, studying the mortal before him as another piece of Erik’s armor — most of the breastplate — fell off. “Finding you equipment that will survive your use, however, may prove more problematic. Still, now that you have gotten past whatever had restrained you, let us continue.”